Abigail's New Hope (25 page)

Bravely, he turned to her and asked, “Well, then. What say you about a wintertime wedding?” While waiting for her answer, his heart had thudded against his ribcage loud enough to be heard.

She cocked her head to ponder the notion before replying. “I reckon I would like to marry you this winter, Nathan Fisher.” Then she had refocused on the moon until it scuttled behind a cloud. A little while later, they had headed for home.

Ruth and Nathan Fisher had been people of few words. That night might have been years ago, but he hadn’t changed in that regard. Yet he couldn’t disappoint his aunt, who so wanted him to heal. As a widow herself, surely she understood that losing a spouse was different from breaking your arm or cracking your skull. Some wounds festered for a lifetime.

“Slice of pie while you wait?” asked Iris, bustling back into the kitchen. “You didn’t eat that much of your supper.”

“No,
danki
. My appetite isn’t up to par today.” He slouched lower in the chair.

She filled the sink with soapy water to tackle the dishes. His son was nowhere in sight.

“And Abraham?” he asked. “Where is he?”

“Sleeping. I fed him his bottle a tad early so you wouldn’t be held up for your meeting.” She parted the curtains to peer down the driveway. “You did fine yesterday while I was in town. You put the diaper on the correct end, and fed him the proper number of bottles. The boy seems no worse for the wear.” She winked at him over her shoulder.

“I only had to refer to that hospital booklet five or six times. Not too bad, if I say so myself.” He returned the wink. “How is his heat rash since you bought that tube of ointment?”

“The skin is still red and blotchy, but his discomfort seems to have gone away. He’s not crying nearly as much today.”

Nathan realized he would prefer an evening filled with his son’s squalling to what Patricia Daly had in mind. “That’s
gut
to hear,” he said. After a moment, he asked, “Do I look acceptable?” He had donned his Sunday best, down to his lace-up shoes and black felt hat. Because he owned no in-between clothes, his only choices were this outfit or his tattered work clothes.

She glanced back at him. “You look fine. Stop fretting.”

He overheard a chuckle once she turned back to the dishes. “I’m not sure how fancy folks can sit around and yak the night away,” he said.

“Amish folk spend every Sunday afternoon talking up a storm. Just pretend you’re standing around somebody’s barn after a preaching service.”

He was about to debate the issue when he heard a car pull up the driveway. “Whew. Time to go. Don’t wait up, Aunt Iris. No telling how long these things last.” He tugged his hat down over his ears and marched outside to meet his fate.

Patricia jumped out of the car and waved her hand. “Good evening, Mr. Fisher. My, you look very nice. I have my personal car tonight instead of the county’s sedan. I hope you don’t think it’s too small.”

“Please call me Nathan, and no, your car is just fine.” He ducked his head and folded himself into the two-seater sports car. It felt as though he was sitting mere inches above the ground while his knees pressed hard against the dashboard.

“You can slide that seat back some. There’s a gizmo on the side. And please buckle your seat belt.”

Nathan didn’t like the seat belt. It made him feel trapped inside the tin can. However, once he was situated, he forced a pleasant expression. “Is it a long drive to your place?”

“We’re not going to my house, although that’s where we usually hold these meetings. Once I told a few members you were coming, another woman who doesn’t live far from you volunteered her home. Plus, she had a blackberry cheesecake recipe she wanted to try out.”

Little hairs rose on the back of his neck. “This is a
social
gathering—a coffee klatch of women getting together?” he asked. It wasn’t too late to ask her to turn the car around and take him home.

“No, no, it’s a therapeutic session, I assure you. Other men will be there. But we
Englischers
tend to include some kind of dessert or refreshment when we gather, no matter what the occasion.” She glanced at him.

Begrudgingly, he nodded. “I suppose the Amish are the same. We have almost as much food after a funeral as a wedding.” He tried not to think about the sliced ham, fried chicken, barbequed beef, cold salads, and hot vegetables served by his cousins after Ruth’s funeral. He tried but did not succeed.

“I want you to relax tonight, Nathan.” Patricia seemed to sense his unease. “These are all fine Christian people who, like yourself, have recently lost a loved one. Although you may not have met them before, you can be certain you’ll be among friends.” She kept her focus on the highway. Cars and trucks zoomed past the tiny car at incredible speeds. “And one of the requirements to join the group is complete discretion. Nothing you share with us will ever be repeated to other people, and the same will be expected from you.” She met his gaze briefly.

He pulled on his beard, trying to shift to a more comfortable position. “I don’t know if I’ll say anything a’tal. I thought I’d just listen to what other folks have to say.”

“That’s perfectly fine. You’re under no obligation to talk tonight or ever. But you might be surprised. There’s something about people sharing their burdens that may make you choose to unload a few of your own.”

He grunted and clenched his teeth.
Missing my wife is no burden
. “You say these folks are Christians? Do they all go to your church?”

“They are all Christians, but they go to a variety of churches—Baptist, Methodist, Lutheran, Catholic, and non-denominational, like mine.”

“Am I your only Amish?”

“You will be our first, but I hope not our last.”

Nathan stared out the window without comment. As usual, he didn’t know what to say or think about any of this. But his time for contemplation ended as her little red car pulled up the long drive of a beige ranch house with green shutters. A ceramic deer with glass eyes watched their approach from the flower bed, while a metal sunflower spun wildly in the breeze.

“This is the home of Carol Baker,” announced Patricia.

“Mrs. Baker sure loves red geraniums and purple pansies,” he said, unfolding himself from the car. Dozens of each plant bordered the concrete walkway leading to the front door. Nathan walked behind Mrs. Daly on legs stiffened from the soup-can car and from fear of the unknown.

A middle-aged woman in bright purple greeted them at the door. “Hello, Patricia. And you must be Mr. Fisher. Welcome,” she said. “Everyone else is already in the living room. Shall we join them?”

Nathan nodded, following the ladies into the front room, where four women and two men waited. Some were sitting on the couch or in upholstered chairs, but metal chairs had also been set up. All eyes fastened on him and their chatter ceased when they entered.

“Everyone, this is Nathan Fisher,” said Patricia. “I’ll let people introduce themselves, and talk a little about the loved one they have lost. I’ll go first and then you can be last, Nathan.”

After he sat down in the chair closest to the door, the social worker cleared her throat. “My name is Patricia, and I’ve been widowed for two years. I met my husband in high school and we dated throughout college, marrying after graduation. We were blessed with two daughters. One is at college in Toledo and the other is married and living in New York. My Jim worked hard as a plumbing contractor to provide for his family. And he never wanted to go to sleep without patching up a disagreement. Because he passed over in his sleep, I was very grateful for his little rule.” Patricia smiled directly at Nathan. “That gets easier and easier the more times I repeat it.”

Nathan tried to exhale the breath he’d been holding.
This will not be easy
.

A young woman spoke next about a baby who had died. The infant had been born prematurely, with lungs that hadn’t had a chance to fully develop. When tears filled the woman’s eyes during the telling, Nathan’s heart swelled with pity. It had been nearly three years, yet the woman still suffered. He wondered if she had other
kinner
but didn’t dare ask.

Just when he thought the woman had finished her story, she blurted out, “My husband says I’ve been neglecting my two little girls and not paying them the attention they deserve. I don’t mean to, but I can’t stop thinking about the son I’ve lost.”

Nathan’s mouth dropped open.
She is neglecting two other children because of her memories?

The next speaker was an older woman who had lost her sister. She spoke at length about how this sister used to torment her while young—blame mischief on her, flirt with her boyfriends, and even steal her possessions. As adults, the women still hadn’t gotten along. The deceased sister had often criticized the woman’s housekeeping and cooking skills and constantly mocked her for her weight problem. Although she had tried to think of the positive aspects of their relationship, she couldn’t forget that her initial reaction to her sister’s death had been relief. Nathan squinted his eyes, thinking that all this family history should have been buried with the dead.

The younger of the two men had lost his brother in a car accident last year. The brother had been drinking late at a bar and had tried to outrun the police. They would have undoubtedly arrested him for his third DUI. Instead of avoiding arrest, his brother failed to negotiate a curve and had died on impact with a tree. Nathan said a silent prayer for the man’s soul, and then he put him out of mind because any further thoughts about him would be unkind and judgmental.
Wasn’t his behavior an abomination before the Lord?

The other man—elderly, white haired, and stoop shouldered—spoke lovingly of his wife of forty-nine years. They had had children, grandchildren, and even great-grandchildren together. He sounded angry because plans had been underway for a huge, catered reception to celebrate their golden wedding anniversary. He spoke of their travels to Europe, Africa, and more cruises through the Caribbean than he could count. “But why, oh why couldn’t she have lived long enough for the tour of China in the spring? Maddy had always wanted to see the Great Wall. We had already paid our deposit, and although the money was refunded, I still wish God had given us more time together. There were still so many more things Maddy and I had wanted to see and do.”

Indeed
. Nathan clenched his jaw and squirmed in his chair. He had no business here with these
Englischers
. He had nothing in common with them.

“Nathan?”

His head snapped up. Patricia and the others were staring at him.

“I asked if you would like to comment on Bob’s story. Something he said seems to have touched a chord. Or maybe this would be a good time for you to share your story.”

Nathan breathed through his nostrils like a bull and considered running for the back door. But the fact that his horse and buggy weren’t parked outside kept him in his seat. “My wife, Ruth, died in childbirth a few weeks ago. Our first baby. My son is fine. His name is Abraham.” He spoke in quick, short sentences. When it felt as though he hadn’t spoken for his allotted time he added, “We met at a church social. That’s it. End of story.”

Eight pairs of eyes watched him, expecting more details. After an uncomfortable silence, Patricia asked, “Is there something you wanted to say about Bob’s sharing?”

He closed his eyes, feeling irritation gather deep within his gut. “It seems to me that if the good Lord gave you and your wife forty-nine happy years together, that should be enough. What’s so important about seeing some fancy wall in China or spending a lot of money on some golden party to impress your friends? You should be grateful for what you had. Period.”

Bob cleared his throat. “I know that’s how I
should
feel, but some days I just can’t. I miss her so much. I always thought I would go first. I don’t know how to live without my Maddy.”

“You get up and go about your day. You do your work and fall into bed at night too tired to think about things.” The words bubbled forth of their own accord. He felt color rise in his face like turning up a kerosene wick.

“Nathan, take a deep breath and try to relax.” Patricia Daly spoke in a soothing tone usually used to quiet rambunctious children. “You’re getting yourself worked up, and we’re all friends here.”

He shook his head. “You are all friends here. And that’s fine. This sort of thing probably works for
Englischers
, but it seems to me that you’re telling family secrets that you shouldn’t and you’re spending far too much time dwelling on the past.” He struggled to his feet. “What’s done is done. Nothing is going to change the past or bring back the people who died. I don’t care if you talk from now until the sun comes up tomorrow.” He set the hat he’d been fiddling with back on his head. “I’m going to walk home, Mrs. Daly. Please stay with the group. I appreciate what you’re trying to do here, but frankly, the exercise will do me far more good than sitting here chawing all night.”